SELF-PORTRAIT WITH OTHER AFTER THE FIRE

When the house went up in fire, I spentall the nights awake and waiting. Cotton sheets went thinon my body holesin the roof saran-wrappedwindows. Then you came,your body shaping the bedthe panic I felt whenevera plane rose in the skylightengine thrum and contrailssmoke stained the ceiling in patterns:salamander, paint pony, the animalsthat run away. I wrote somethingwithout you in it. I built a fenceto stop myself from leaving.I went to work on the house. Tossedashy shingles in the trash, putclean glass into panes. I am finding my skin tautin places the smoothness of newcells, the trappings (youknow) of you.I must put themon me like a fur, the weightof it the texture brushingover my skin at my facehow it holds my chin up how itturns my face up, a sturdy rodruns up my spine from coccyxto neck an adaptationdeveloped in extremis,aided by you, the personwho gave me the animal skinsthe ones that stay close to the body.